


feelings and illusions

by princegrantaire, slaapkat



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Green Lantern (Comics), Green Lantern - All Media Types, Justice Society of America (Comics), Stargirl (TV 2020)
Genre: Body Horror, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Drabble Collection, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Gen, M/M, Nightmares, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, some crackfic here and there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:13:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 12,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26127076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princegrantaire/pseuds/princegrantaire, https://archiveofourown.org/users/slaapkat/pseuds/slaapkat
Summary: A collection of drabbles written betweenprincegrantaireand I! Some funny stuff, some sad stuff, but all good stuff!
Relationships: Alan Scott & Hal Jordan, Alan Scott & Ted Grant, Bane/Bruce Wayne, Hal Jordan & Thaal Sinestro, Hal Jordan/Thaal Sinestro, Harvey Dent & Bruce Wayne, Harvey Dent/Bruce Wayne, Jay Garrick & Alan Scott, Ted Grant/Alan Scott, Thaal Sinestro/Arin Sur
Comments: 9
Kudos: 43





	1. Bruce & Harv

**Author's Note:**

> "The taste of Vodka at the back of your throat."

It starts like this.

Or– it doesn’t. Or, it does. Harvey isn’t quite sure. He can’t even check, because he’s lost the coin somewhere along the way. All the better, really. Bruce doesn’t like it when he brings it out.

Bruce–

The path to Wayne Manor is a familiar and well-trodden one. Harvey can remember that much.

Reality was a fickle thing when it came to Two-Face. Even when Harvey was in control, that sickly-sweet voice was always whispering in his ears, casting doubt, stoking the flames of paranoia and forcing Harvey to question and doubt himself. Periods of disassociation made even his memories untrustworthy.

But _Bruce_ –

Bruce was the one constant in his life, from the very beginning. Bruce was safe, Bruce was his friend, Bruce could have been–

Harvey grimaces as he takes another swig from the vodka bottle, relishes the burn. Two-Face’s screams rattle from within his mind. He needs– he _needs_ that constant, now. His vision blurs before his eyes, a strange mix of inebriation and that nauseating sensation of Two-Face vying for control, but the way to the manor remains clear.

_You can’t trust him. He’ll sell you out. You’ll end up back in Arkham. He’s not your friend anymore. No one is._

Images grow hazy, swimming and muddling and corrupting into something frightening, but the manor remains a beacon in Harvey’s sight.

Harvey sags against the front gate, and jabs his thumb against the intercom buzzer, a tone ringing out incessantly until it picks up with a crackle.

“… _Harvey?_ ” Bruce, unmistakably. He sounds shocked. Worried.

“Hey, Bruce,” Harvey rasps. “I–”

His chest tightens, words caught in his throat; he can still taste the vodka. _I miss you. I need you_. “I… I need some help.”

Silence, and Harvey begins to wonder if maybe Two-Face were right, after all.

The intercom crackles again. “ _Stay there, Harv. I’ll come bring you inside_.”

The relief is enough for Harvey to choke back a sob, and he waits by the gate for the one singular sense of stability that he has left in life to come to him once again.


	2. Hal/Sinestro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We need to talk about what happened last night.”

Hal can feel Arkillo’s eyes on him, peering curiously at the… _hickey_ peeking just above the edge of his collar and then, further up, the ones peppered along his jaw. There’s no escape and unless Hal opts to confine himself in some sort of full-body-turtleneck, he’s doomed to endure the implications of a particularly passionate tryst. He shifts and fights hard to keep himself from flushing, aided only partially by a legendary willpower.

It’s not like Hal’s exactly prone to embarrassment. He knows who he is, what he likes, and finds no reason for humiliation in there but–

Well.

He can be forgiven, he thinks, for a sudden urge to squirm on Ranx, in front of the entirety of the Sinestro Corps. More or less. A _very_ crucial lantern happens to be missing.

“Look, I just wanna talk to Sinestro,” Hal insists, quite aware of the distinct creeping sensation of having just walked into the wolf’s den, “I know you guys know about me and him so– I wanna get this over as quickly as you do.” He even tries for a smile, in the interest of not being brutally murdered.

Just as Arkillo opens his mouth, no doubt about to dismiss Hal’s pleads for the third time since his arrival, the man of the hour himself deems it necessary to step into the room.

Sinestro, impeccable as always, quirks an eyebrow meaningfully at the scene unfolding before him. It’s only then that Hal considers the possibility of a mistake. Sure, they’ve been doing this for a while now, longer than either would care to admit, but maybe that doesn’t quite give Hal permission to stroll uninvited into what’s effectively an enemy outpost.

Who would’ve guessed?

He takes the opportunity to shrug vaguely in response and then, once it becomes clear he’s to remain un-murdered, risks a hesitant step in Sinestro’s general direction. “We need to talk about last night,” Hal says, bravely enough.

“Whatever you may need to say you can say in front of my corps,” Sinestro declares, gaze straying to the now-world famous hickeys. Hal stares, unable to tell what he’s playing at.

Or, worse, if it’s a rare bout of sudden amnesia.

Hal considers that. “Remember last night like, right after you finished and you just started purr–”

A yellow construct hand slaps over his mouth. Hal grins, though it goes unseen, and watches Sinestro carefully – the slight twitch of his lips, his eyes narrowing abruptly to cover up a flash of panic. Sinestro coughs but remains perfectly still.

“I require all lanterns to depart immediately,” he says, steadier than expected.


	3. Sinestro/Arin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "It's all been a lie, hasnt it."

“Thaal.” It was Arin’s voice, quiet amongst the startling emptiness of their home. “We need to talk.”

Sinestro’s smile wavered only slightly, but he saw no reason to be worried yet. He’d just come home, fresh from a rousing speech at the capitol, surrounded by roaring, adoring crowds and tall, rippling banners emblemized with the glaringly intimidating symbol of the Green Lantern Corps. He felt _good_ , his dream of restoring order to his home planet _finally_ on its way tobecoming realized. He kissed Arin gently on her forehead before drawing away from how he’d embraced her.

“Of course, dear,” Sinestro said easily, even as he could feel some of Arin’s tension seeping into him. He tucked a stray strand of hair back behind her ear in an attempt to diffuse it. “Is something wrong?”

Arin pulled away fully, unable to quite look him in the eye. 

"You need to stop this.”

Sinestro couldn’t help but laugh, a nervous little chuckle escaping. “I’m sorry? Stop what, exactly?”

“Just– this, Thaal!” Arin blurted, gesturing out towards the window, out across the cityscape beyond, a horizon tinged green and white by countless more of those inescapable banners, the once-hopeful symbol of the Green Lanterns now lording over the people below. “This is going too far! People are becoming afraid of you, can’t you see that?”

“And what of it?” Sinestro challenged, unbothered. “If fear is what keeps them in line, then so be it.”

“Thaal, it’s just–” Arin swallowed thickly, blinking against the growing wetness in her eyes, frustrated and– afraid? “This isn’t what you’re supposed to be using your ring for, is it? This is _wrong_ ,

“Why would the Guardians give me all this _power_ if I wasn’t supposed to _use_ it?”

“Not like this!” Arin fired back, shouting above Sinestro in her effort to be heard, tears finally breaking the dam and falling down her face. “Thaal, not like this! Green Lanterns are supposed to _help_ , and ever since Abin died–”

“ _No_.” Sinestro grit out, interrupting. The _last_ thing he wanted to do was think about Abin Sur, about that middling, pathetic _human_ who replaced him. “I _am_ helping. I’m maintaining _order_ on Korugar, I’m finally putting an _end_ to this civil war, once and for all. When all’s said and done, my people will _praise_ me for it, and the Guardians will know that I’m _right_.”

Arin’s glare did not abate any, and if anything Sinestro’s words only seemed to compound her despair. She shuddered, sniffing as she wiped at her eyes and turned away. Guilt settled heavily in the pit of his stomach in an instant. Arin _had_ to know he was right, he only wanted what was best for them, for _her_ , for–

Sinestro paused. It was– _quiet_ , in their home. Unusually so. 

“Where’s Soranik?” Sinestro asked suddenly, cautious. Arin tensed, but didn’t answer. Fear jolted down his spine, sharp and terrifying. “Arin. Where’s–”

“I sent her away.”

“You _what_ –”

“I sent her away! For her own good,” Arin shot back, whipping around to face him. “For her own protection. It’s not _safe_ here anymore, people are threatening our lives!”

“How _dare_ you! She’s safest with _me_ –” Sinestro began, roaring with indignity, only to be cut off by the deep rumbling of an explosion which shook the very foundations of their home, followed by distant, unmistakable bursts of gunfire. Sinestro’s heart dropped, how could the rebels be advancing _now_ –

Fresh tears rolled down Arin’s face, silent and damning. “It’s all been a lie, hasn’t it?”

Sinestro shrank back, unexpectedly stung. “What?”

“You, promising to _fix_ things,” Arin continued, arms wrapped tightly around herself. The tears kept coming. “It’s not safe here, anymore. It’s not safe _anywhere_. Abin had been so _proud_ to call himself a Green Lantern, and it earned him _nothing_ , and all I’ve seen of it since–” She took a shuddering breath, looking Sinestro in the eye. “There’s nothing to be proud of now.”

Sinestro was struck silent. He didn’t– he didn’t mean for–

Another distant explosion rumbled by, closer than the last. Suddenly, Arin’s safety seemed paramount above all else. 

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, taking her hand in his and kissing it in apology. “I’ll get you off-planet. Back to– Ungara. I _will_ fix this. I want to do right by my family.”

Even if she didn’t quite believe him, she nodded, allowing Sinestro to lead her away.

“The tunnels below the streets,” Sinestro said, pulling her along. “There’s a safe passage there…”


	4. Bruce/Bane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sorry I took a nap on you."

It’s well known among the other heroes in the league that Bruce has something of a– _unique_ relationship with his rogues gallery. Not so antagonistic as Superman’s, not quite as overly friendly as the Flash. A healthy middle ground that’s maybe not so healthy once you really start looking at it.

Regardless, the point is that Bruce doesn’t _hate_ them, per se, and he doesn’t exactly _like_ them, but he does get along weirdly well with a decent portion of them. Kindred spirits and all that, or something.

It’s for this reason Bruce often ends up in– less than _appealing_ situations with them.

Waking up, groggy and head pounding, Bruce doesn’t remember much, awareness coming back to him in slow, plodding degrees.

He’s laying across a couch, and everything feels achy and sore in the way that it usually does after a long, hard fight. He’s still in his armor, but only realizes he’s absent of his cowl when he belatedly becomes aware of the sensation of a huge bear paw of a hand carding through his hair with uncommon gentleness. It’s in this same instant Bruce realizes his head isn’t pillowed against the arm of the couch, but rather the solid thigh of a very _large_ and very _familiar_ man.

“Bane…?” Bruce croaks, because– well, the last thing he remembers is _fighting_ Bane. A pretty intense fight, too, if he’s remembering correctly. Bruce is _pretty_ sure he’s concussed.

“Finally awake?” Bane says, sounding almost bored. His luchador mask is gone, as well as all of his Venom adornments. Bruce is more puzzled by the oddity of that particular image than his current situation. “You’ve been passed out for hours.”

“And, I’m… here,” Bruce ventures cautiously, unsure of Bane’s intentions.

Bane shrugs, casual. “You were putting up a good fight, until you weren’t. You fell, hit your head. I felt bad for you. Have you been sleeping?”

It’s then Bruce– mostly remembers. He’d been up for days at that point with little to no sleep, tracking shipments of a new drug ring seeking to establish itself in Gotham. Finding Bane at the center of it all had been an unexpected surprise. Bruce remembers his exhaustion finally cresting, his vision greying, and then… nothing.

“I guess… no, not lately,” Bruce answers, if only because he feels compelled to. “But why am I _here_?”

“Quiet, _murciélagito_. My show is on.”

Bruce’s brain slogs through its rudimentary understanding of Spanish. “Did you just call me–?”

“It is what you are,” Bane answers simply. His massive hand keeps _petting_ Bruce’s head all the while.

“Oh.” Bruce says. It’s hard to protest against either of that, so he settles for reluctant acceptance. “Okay.”

On the TV, a woman wields a gun with maniacal glee while talking in rapid-fire Spanish. Bruce understands maybe a fraction of it, his combined exhaustion and still very possible exhaustion making it next to impossible to pick up on all the subtle intricacies of what was apparently Bane’s favorite telenovela.

“Sorry I took a nap on you.” Or not. It was hard for Bruce to decide where he stood when Bane was still petting him. It felt necessary to apologize regardless.

“You can make up for it later. Now, _silencio_. Let us watch my show.”


	5. Bruce & Harv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Have you lost your fucking mind?”

The former home of Frankie “Angel” Carbone crackles as it collapses in on itself, fire spreading faster than it should for what’s meant to be a controlled demise. It’s no real surprise, Harvey knows, when building regulations are yet to reach the majority of Gotham. He remembers working a couple of lawsuits back in the day, trying to make a name for himself.

Frankie’s no concern of his either, as is the case with any other hitman that’s chosen to associate himself with the Maroni family. No, what Harvey’s worried about here is Matches Malone and the flames reflected in his _Magnum, P. I._ sunglasses.

“Bruce, have you lost your fucking mind?!” Harvey shouts, though he doesn’t mean to, because it’s the kind of thing you do when you’ve watched your childhood best friend incinerate a building.

He’s seen a lot in his tenure as Two-Face, he’s _participated_ in a lot and an unusually lucid day doesn’t mean he gets to take any of that back but– he’d never counted on Bruce following him down the rabbit-hole. In fact, he’s about one more charge of arson away from calling the manor.

Bruce, for his part, sort of shuffles in place, abruptly awkward. He coughs, paws at his pockets for spare matchsticks and settles for smoothing down his moustache.

“Gee, boss, I don’t know whatcha talkin’ about. I told ya my name’s Matches,” he says, again with that atrocious accent, and momentarily pauses for effect, “Matches Malone.”

As things currently stand, Matches Malone is a sort of caricature of a man – epilepsy-inducing colours and patterns on an ensemble that must’ve died a tragic death somewhere in the summer of 1969, an accent that could have only been gained from repeated viewings of _The Godfather_ and the eponymous match in his mouth. Harvey wants to laugh. Coincidentally, he also sort of wants to cry.

“What the hell.”

See, what Harvey wants to say is _This isn’t you!_ and _Please don’t get arrested._ but that’s not, exactly, what comes out.

It’s not the first time he’s seen Matches Malone but it’s certainly the first time he’s seen him in action and it’s nothing less than startling. Harvey doesn’t know a lot, doesn’t believe a whole lot in therapy either, but if this is what a midlife crisis looks like for the rich and powerful, he’d quite like Bruce to take the time to talk to someone.

“Y’know, they say arson is a victimless crime,” Bruce remarks, casual.

Harvey grips the coin his pocket, more comfort than compulsion. “No one–” He sighs. “No one says that, Bruce.”


	6. Alan & Parallax!Hal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Everyone keeps telling me you’re the bad guy.”

It’s the silence that dawns on him first. After a fashion, Alan’s lived all over. The tiny apartment in Gotham, tightly-packed army bases and sprawling suburban Metropolis, even Joan and Jay’s guest room back in Keystone. He’s used to sirens, screams, laughter, warm summer quiet and everything in between.

Coast City is just– _absent_. A derelict isolation.

For a second, a green-tinged shadow flickers. Buildings rise. Life resumes. Then, all at once, it’s gone in the blink of an eye, reduced back to craters and ruins. Alan stops in mid-air, considers the spark in the air, the calm before the storm. He’s heard because everyone’s heard but, in the ensuing decades since the 1950′s and a fateful trial, Green Lantern’s learned to keep his distance. At a glance, he’s well and truly retired.

It’s none of his business, not really. The dead ring-bearers – they’re barely familiar, fellow heroes if they’d ever cared to count a relic of the so-called Golden Age among them, but he _is_ curious. More often than not, it’s been a natural sense of curiosity that’s served him better than any inclination towards detective work, of which there is very little. No, it’s the accusations that have brought him here, the need to see for himself.

Alan knows Hal Jordan and he’s well-acquainted with an existence fragmented by denial but what he knows best, better than most, is the power they wield, the precipice willpower stands on before it veers elsewhere.

Fact of the matter is Alan has seen the end of the world, many times before. Countries ravaged by war, cities reduced to ashes. It’s not a sight he wants to grow used to but– he _has_. Coast City might cause an unsettled stomach at best, a sense of growing unease but he won’t lose any sleep over it and it’s hard not to despise himself for it, for what years of service have done in the benefit of detachment.

It’s not _his_ home.

Hal stands in the midst of a crater, staring in the desolate distance. His armour glimmers in the afternoon sun. It _is_ armour, not the Green Lantern uniform Alan might’ve grown used to. Great big epaulettes reflect the light, throw a strange shadow before him.

“Everyone keeps telling me you’re the bad guy,” Alan says as he lands.

If Hal startles, he gives no indication. Up close, there’s an unsteady balance to him, something of the throes of some sort of withdrawal. He turns around, unexpectedly graceful, and his mask fades away to nothing, though his eyes remain as wide as Alan’s ever seen them, a touch red like he’s been crying and sunken in. Weapons-grade exhaustion.

“I am _not_ ,” Hal says, easy, like he’s joking. It’s at odds with his appearance, speaks of his lack of confusion at Alan’s abrupt arrival.

With the grey around his temples, it wouldn’t be too hard to assume he’s got a good couple of years on Alan. That, too, gives him pause. It’s Hal and not quite, a murky reflection of a man Alan now realises he’s yet to meet.

“I knew you’d come. Someone had to.” And it’s then Hal smiles, chilling, _empty_. “I’m not gonna stop until I make it right.”

There it is.

What Alan has come to see.

It’s not his fight, not yet, but there _is_ a flavour of guilt here, the sudden awareness that no one had stepped in and it’s too late now.

Much too late.

The world flickers again, that same mirage of the city that had once been, and Hal turns his back to Alan once more, staring at nothing and no one. The silence threatens to engulf them. Alan can’t help him now, though he wishes he’d understood sooner, back when there’d still been time.


	7. Hal/Sinestro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “IF YOU USE UP ALL THE HOT WATER ONE MORE TIME I'M GOING TO BAN YOU TO THE COUCH FOR A MONTH.”

Having his own apartment was something of a luxury these days, his activities as Green Lantern not exactly leaving much time to hold down a stable job. Hard enough on its own as a regular superhero, next to impossible when you were also technically a cop with an entire sector of space to patrol on top of everything else.

But, Hal had managed to hold down this particular abode for more than six months, which definitely counted as _some_ kind of win. It wasn’t the best, or the biggest, but it was relatively cheap, and it wasn’t as though Hal would honestly be spending _too_ much time there anyways.

All that mattered was that Hal had a nice _hot_ shower to come back to at the end of the day.

Too bad he couldn’t even have _that_ half the time.

Hal groans the second he steps through his front door, the muffled hiss of steaming water immediately greeting his ears. The balcony door was left ajar, and fifteen stories up, that left only _one_ exceedingly annoying culprit.

God, he’d really have to get– locks, or something. How _do_ you keep a power-mad despotic alien who you kinda maybe sometimes slept with on the side out of your apartment when he had the most powerful weapon at his disposal next to the Green Lantern ring?

Moreover, how do you keep out said alien when he evidently took _immense_ pleasure when he dropped by whenever he saw fit purely to hog _all_ his hot water.

“Sinestro!” Hal snaps, knocking none-too-gently against his bathroom door. “The least you could do was close the door behind you, jackass. How long have you even been in there?”

The only response he gets is a casual, lackadaisical hum of acknowledgement. “Hmm,” Sinestro says, sounding far too content for his own good. “A while, I’m sure. This contraption of yours is _divine_.”

Hal mutters mutinously under his breath and pushes the door open; hot, steaming air washes over him in an instant, telling of just _how_ long exactly Sinestro had been in there, only serving to sour his mood more.

“Seriously? You’re gonna use up all the hot water!”

From behind the shower curtain he hears nothing more than an amused chuckle. Sure, Hal could always say _fuck it_ and join him, but if Sinestro could be petty then so could he.

“God,” Hal groans frustratingly. “I’m serious. If you use up all the hot water _one more time_ I’m going to ban you to the couch for a _month_!”

A scandalized gasp as Sinestro finally peeks his face around the curtain, scowling, no, _pouting_ , wearing a goddamn _showercap_ of all things, where did he even _get_ one of those– “You wouldn’t _dare_!”

“I _would_ dare,” Hal challenges, arms crossing. “Because _I’m_ the one paying the damn _rent_ , Mr. No-Concept-of-Money. It’s my shower!”

Sinestro huffs irritably, pouting still, and apparently Hal can’t stay mad, as much as he _really_ wants to, because he honestly _really_ wants what’s left of the hot shower even more. Hal sighs in similar irritation and begins to strip.

“Scoot over,” he says curtly, stepping into the shower despite Sinestro’s protests. “Like I said. _My_ shower.”


	8. Hal/Sinestro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In the snow."

“Ridiculous.”

“No, it’s not ridiculous. I promise.”

Sinestro narrows his eyes in clear suspicion and disbelief. Hal only grins back, tossing a rolled lump of snow between his hands absently. Fresh snow lays all around them, with more falling gently from the sky as they stand there.

Well. As _Hal_ stands there. Sinestro floats a few inches above the ground, arms crossed disapprovingly, the yellow aura of his power ring evaporating the snow before it can have the chance to land on him and sully his appearance. Hal, by contrast, is covered with a light dusting all over, carefree, his ring keeping him warm even flakes tangle themselves in his tousled, dark brown hair, still grinning up at Sinestro.

“I _promise_ ,” Hal says again. “Here, on Earth, it’s traditional to have a snowball fight on the first snow day of the season.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” Sinestro retorts dryly. “I’m not going to debase myself with this.”

“Man, come on,” Hal chides playfully. “You came all this way, because– what? Captain Cold owes you money? We took care of him, now let’s have a little fun.”

“I came because–” Sinestro starts, defensive, before cutting himself off and frowning. Hal’s grin turns smug. Sinestro scoffs and continues, haughty. “Because only _I’m_ allowed to kill you, and that _idiot_ Captain Cold threatened to overstep his bounds. Now, I’m _leaving_.”

Hal rolls his eyes with a huff as Sinestro proceeds to turn his back on him and make to fly off. Hal gives it a couple seconds, watching as Sinestro began to ascend, before cocking back his arm and launching the snowball directly at him.

It lands squarely in the back of his head, catching Sinestro entirely by surprise as it pulverizes in a cloud of slush and ice.

“How _dare_ –” Sinestro begins, but it’s all he has time to get out before he turns and it met with another snowball right in the middle of his face. Sinestro sputters indignantly, finally dropping to the ground as he scrabbles to claw the snow from his face, glaring with a fury at Hal.

An affect which is utterly lost when combined with the sight of Sinestro’s hair dripping with slush, his meticulously groomed mustache now sullied by a rim of ice, and Hal is laughing so hard at it all that he doesn’t hardly notice when Sinestro hastily scoops a handful of snow and launches it, hitting him in the shoulder.

It’s a sufficient enough distraction that by the time Hal realizes with downright _glee_ what had just happened, it’s too late to do anything about the subsequent realization that Sinestro is barreling right towards him, tackling him to the ground in the snow with a grunt.

Hal then shrieks in a decidedly _very_ un-manly manner when Sinestro proceeds to hold him down and shove a handful of snow down the front of his shirt.

“There,” Sinestro states, a touch of amusement clear in his tone, leaning in close. “Now we are even.”


	9. Parallax!Hal/Sinestro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _(cw for some body horror, for context hal’s nightmare is based on the pre-retcon parallax arc)_
> 
> “Would you know the end if you saw it?”

Sinestro’s head hangs limply to the side, lolling back and forth with the minute movements of his heaving frame. A mixture of spit and blood spills from the corner of his mouth onto his shoulder – a violent, bruise-like purple that turns dark as it dries. Hal must’ve knocked out a tooth.

For a split second, the crumpled corpse in the corner of the bedroom meets his eyes.

He tries to, at any rate. One of Sinestro’s eyes is swollen shut and the other merely stares unseeing, as if he’s sensed Hal but not found him. A coincidence then, that shared glance. He’s missing his ring finger, which is– he hadn’t–

It hadn’t been like that on Oa.

The memory had never faded. Hal knows it hadn’t been like that on Oa, that he isn’t to blame for the bloodied stump, he knows, he _knows_ , he just– Sinestro gurgles and it’s hard to make any sense of it at all, not with the neck bent at an odd angle and there’s no protruding bones but Hal thinks there _should_ be. A final indictment. Instead, he gets the dull glow of that singular eye.

And then, he finds his own hands around an already-broken neck. Squeezing. Hal feels the power coursing through him, recognises it as the itching hunger of a name he cannot speak even in his own mind, and squeezes hard with the jolt of fear. There’s nothing left to shatter or ruin. It hasn’t stopped him before. He thinks of Coast City, the _crater_ that’s become Coast City, the millions of lives stifled in an instant, and can’t hear beyond the blood rushing in his ears. It’s nothing and everything like the last time.

“Would you know the end if you saw it?” Sinestro says, perfectly clear, downright casual.

Hal would. He’s looking right at it and it’s coming up fast.

_Good_.

Let it come.

—

Hal hits the floor with a grunt.

A ray of early morning sunlight blinds him momentarily and he can’t comprehend the reality of the bed he’d rolled out of, his own hands bereft of cuts and dirt under fingernails, the t-shirt sticking to his skin. It’s much more vivid than the nightmare. He accepts it as the truth.

The relief is what he relishes in. It’s there after every dream, like he’s living on borrowed time and the counter’s just been reset.

Hal picks himself up with the intention to shower away any lingering reminders and freezes at the sight of Sinestro spread out on the bed, covers and blankets pooled low around him, snoring softly. There’s a faint sheen of sweat across his chest, the shine of his ring where the light reaches it and his hair’s sleep-mussed. It’s absurd.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Hal knows he’d spent the night and this is merely the successor to a pleasant evening in the midst of an on-and-off tryst. In the immediacy of the present, he’s content to see him whole.


	10. Hal/Sinestro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're so needy."

Nights like these tended to be few and far in between. Not the Hal was complaining, exactly, because they were _so_ worth the wait. 

They’d managed to stumble into his bedroom at some point, Sinestro backing Hal up until the back of his knees hit the bed frame and they fell on top of the sheets together. Sinestro is on him immediately, all teeth and heat as he ravages Hal’s neck, shoving a hand under his shirt.

“God, you’re so _needy_ ,” Hal grouses, but offers no resistance as Sinestro pushes his shirt the rest of the way off. 

“ _I’m_ needy?” Sinestro huffs, scandalized, sitting up from where was straddling Hal’s hips. Hal has to fight the urge to whine in complaint at the loss of touch and thus eat his own words. He settles for silently gesturing towards his neck, which Sinestro had been assaulting in earnest only seconds earlier. 

“You know I _do_ have be out in public after this, right?”

Sinestro makes an uncaring noise, leaning down to trace the edges of a bite mark with the pad of his thumb. “If I recall correctly, _you_ were the one who invited _me_ in. Your sexual summons–”

“ _Booty call_ ,” Hal correctly quickly, face going red immediately. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, I _know_. Look, just– never mind, get on with it, will you?”

“Ah, and _now_ who’s the needy one?”

“Oh, shut up.”


	11. Alan & Molly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I thought I wanted this.”

“I assumed you were gonna pay for dinner,” Molly remarks, quiet and even like she’s got no stakes in the matter, as she fiddles with the clasps on her heels. A minute ago, she’d crashed heavily on the bed, sighing as she’d gone, only to pick herself up with the sole purposes of kicking off her shoes. It’s been a long night.

“Jay said he’d get it.”

Alan’s not looking at her. He rarely does. Instead, he’s struggling with his tie and, if one were to take his expression into account, a decent dose of something not unlike guilt.

“Jay always says that, honey.” Molly does look, though not at Alan. The mirror on the vanity table is smudged with lipstick and her good foundation, little Jennie must’ve been playing again. “It was your turn.”

“It was _not_.”

They always do this, the customary post-night-out argument. Molly envies Jay and Joan, the ease with which they laugh and kiss and dance, the little absentminded touches and the way Jay will something just smile down at the ring on his finger for no other reason than the reality of it. _I love you, Joannie_ , bursts out of him on occasion, right there in public like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like there’s no chance of the spark ever going out. Molly’s never once heard the words addressed to her.

Married eight years next month and Alan has never once said it.

“Are you coming to bed?” Molly asks because someone has to back down and tonight, she’s willing to swallow her pride in the interest not waking up the kids. Todd’s been having trouble sleeping lately as it is, chattering endlessly about the shadows in his room.

Alan isn’t, of course.

“Look, I thought I wanted this,” he says it like it hurts, abandoning his blazer and tie over the back of the nearest chair. Molly gets the vivid impression he’s no longer talking about dinner. His blue eyes strike her as cold.

It’s not a matter of losing Alan, not when Molly can’t be sure she’d ever had him.


	12. Bruce/Harvey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The jittery, sick feeling when you can’t do anything.

The reality of that day in court is that Bruce’s made a career out of not feeling helpless. He’d done everything for the vow. The blood and the pearls and the boy on his knees in the alley, on that tiled floor two weeks later, had been enough. The fading warmth of his mother’s hand is what Bruce remembers each time he takes to the streets as the Bat.

He’d been helpless then and never again, which is why, he supposes, when the acid–

Bruce doesn’t move as he watches Gotham’s brightest star burn. He blinks and Harvey’s screaming in agony, echoing for years to come. Sal Maroni’s frozen in the witness stand, as if he’s not quite expected the tragedy unfolding before his eyes. As a matter of fact, no one moves a muscle.

It’s Jim Gordon, months away from commissioner, who rushes out to Harvey, shields him from prying eyes, calls an ambulance, saves a life the best way he knows how.

And Bruce’s just sitting there, not breathing, caught in the landslide of gunshots in an alley. It’s the distinctly clear knowledge of having just seen his best friend’s death that keeps him rooted to the spot.

Broad daylight.

The sickening smell of what must be burning flesh.

Later, in the hospital, holding Harvey’s uninjured hand and looking and looking and looking at the bandages, Bruce cries. Quiet, stifled sobs, like the kid who’d knelt with the corpses. There’s no one around to hear him, Harvey won’t be up for hours.

All the times Harvey Dent had been an _almost_ rush back in. That first night they’d spent together at the manor, sixteen and carefree like Bruce’s never known himself to be, desperate to get so much closer without quite knowing why. Then, the rooftop, years later, right before Bruce had left for an unlikely meeting with Ra’s Al Ghul, and he’d wanted–

He’d wanted to kiss Harvey, more than ever before.

The inevitable pain of not having said anything is nearly as stark as the need.

So, he sits there, stroking Harvey’s hand and watching the bouquet he’d brought wilt and waiting for a first stirring of life. Bruce owes him that much.


	13. Bruce/Bane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Did I say that out loud?”

Let it be known that Bruce _usually_ has a good brain-to-mouth filter. It helps that he’s a man of few words naturally, preferring to say as little as he can get away with so that he can leave the conversation that much quicker. It also helps that, as Batman, he’s more focused on the task at hand than with the trivialities of running his mouth.

What _doesn’t_ help is the concussion he’s _pretty_ sure he has right this moment, courtesy of a one and only _Bane_.

Bruce is pushed up against the wall, held up at _least_ a couple feet off the ground by the solid meat of Bane’s forearm crushing into his sternum, the other wound up in a fist ready to punch his lights out.

He can’t help it. Really, he _can’t_ help it. He’s mildly delirious, probably a little deficient on oxygen, and Bane is just _huge,_ pumped up on venomand holding him up like he weighed nothing more than a couple of grapes.

“God, that’s _hot_ ,” Bruce chokes out, eyes threatening to roll into the back of his head.

All at once, the suffocating pressure against his chest disappears and Bruce finds himself flat on his ass staring up dazedly at Bane, who in turn is staring down at him very confused.

“¿ _Qué_?“ comes the incredulous question.

“Uh,” comes the rather inelegant answer. Bruce can feel himself flushing _very_ hotly underneath the cowl. “Did I say that out loud?”

“Yeesh, murciélagito,” Bane says as he leans down to Bruce’s level, tapping the side of his cowl. “Knocked you around harder than I thought, ey?”

“Um,” is all Bruce can say as he’s summarily scooped up into Bane’s arms and carried surprisingly gently. He feels flush deepen.

“Bad manners to just send you back like _that_. Let me treat you. Tamales?”

Bruce can only wholeheartedly agree.


	14. Alan Scott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This has to stay between us.”

He doesn’t belong here.

He _does_ , and yet– he really doesn’t. Alan knows he sticks out like a sore thumb, in more ways than one. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, his pastel long-sleeved polo and khakis painfully out of place among the rest of the crowd in the bar, catering towards a _specific_ sort of clientele that Alan still wasn’t entirely sure he qualified for.

He’d tried this once already, daring to venture out to bars like this, ones rumored to provide safe havens away from prying eyes. It had ended with him getting cold feet and fleeing the second someone looked like they were coming his way. Not that this instance wasn’t much better, wallowing alone at the bar counter nursing a glass of Coke, sans rum, trying his absolute hardest to avoid looking anyone else in the eye.

Just this once. That’s all Alan needed. Just– _one_ time, get it out of his system, and be _normal_ again. Then, he could go back to being the All-American hero the rest of the JSA knew him to be. Perfect.

“Hey, Blondie.”

Alan startles before he can help it, the pet-name causing his face to heat in an instant flush, and turns towards the source: another man who had sidled up alongside the bar next to him, with tanned skin and dark hair, dressed in an unassuming casual button-up and jeans, unabashedly giving Alan an obvious once-over over the rim of his drink. He smiles, warm and inviting, and Alan finds himself smiling tentatively back, even as he feels his heart begin to pound with jackhammer force in his chest.

“You here all by yourself, big guy?” The other man continues, easy and relaxed. Alan swallows thickly.

“Yeah, um,” Alan stammers, then clears his throat, and attempts to mirror his easygoing tone. “You?”

“Yeah,” the man echoes with a hum, slow and unconcerned, and takes a step closer into Alan’s space. His eyes make another slow, deliberate sweep up and down his body. Alan feels his flush deepen, but he doesn’t pull away. “It’s no fun, but I might know someplace better.”

The unsaid invitation rings out clear even over the din of the bar. The urge to flee again threatens to claw its way out; Alan swallows it back and allows his smile to spread a little wider.

“Lead the way, friend.”

—

Shame settles like a lead weight in the pit of his stomach, solid and impossibly heavy, nausea threatening to rise around it as he lays there on his back, covers and blankets pooled around them, sweat cooling on their skin. The other man lays close, tracing slow patterns into his shoulder with a lazy, dragging finger.

It had all felt so right, yet Alan still couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong with him.

“You’re _him_ , aren’t you?” the man asks, suddenly. It’s not accusing or angry or any kind of exclamation of shock, simply matter-of-fact, gentle and quiet.

It probably wasn’t too terribly hard to figure out. Between his height and his stature, the way he moves and talks, Alan knows he cuts a figure that’s hard to conceal behind a simple mask and cape. Alan feels dread wind like barbed wire around his heart.

“This has to stay between us,” is all Alan says in reply, not so much a demand as a quiet plea.

The other man is silent, but Alan can see a certain understanding in his eyes, almost mournful. A kind of secret he was well-used to keeping. Alan sighs his relief.

They lie in bed together, and Alan ignores the part of him that wonders if he was ever all that normal to begin with.


	15. Alan & Ted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Nobody’s seen you in days.”

The JSA’s gym is one of the few places Ted can consider _private_ from within the confines of the brownstone that they consider their headquarters. Granted, it’s _technically_ not much of one– a boxing ring, some punching bags, and a few different weights of dumbbells –but it’s _plenty_ for Wildcat.

Most of the others on the team tend not to come down here unless forcefully coerced, their respective superhuman abilities making fighting techniques more or less redundant, or Ted’s reputation as a sparring partner making them more than a little unwilling to step into the ring regardless. 

Either way, Ted’s come to consider their shoddy little gym _his_ , which is why it’s especially startling when he comes down early one morning and finds himself decidedly _not_ alone. 

It’s the muffled sound of crying that catches Ted’s attention, and he’s caught between suspicious and cautious. Feelings weren’t typically his– _thing_ , much preferring to ignore them or wrestle them down, but for the life of him he couldn’t even _begin_ to guess who it could possibly be that had decided that the JSA’s musty old gym was apparently _the_ best place to deal with it. 

Ted rounds the corner slowly and sees– _Alan_? He frowns. 

Alan, the Green Lantern, looking as though he’s barely slept, sat hunched over on a bench with his head in his hands, shoulders shuddering with each muffled sob. Ted’s about to make a quick and hasty exit when Alan apparently finally takes notice of him, head jerking up to look at him.

“Oh!” Alan gasps, quickly scrubbing at his face and eyes to rid himself of any evidence. “Sorry, it’s just– sorry. I’ll go.”

“You okay, big guy?” Ted grinds out out of obligation, desperately wanting to leave but finding his feet glued to the floor. He sits next to Alan on the bench instead. Least he could do was make sure Alan wasn’t actively losing it.

“I’m– I’m fine,” Alan says, clearly desperately trying to pull himself together. It’s something of a wasted effort. “God, no, actually. Streak died, yesterday.”

“ _Who_?”

“My… dog.”

Ted makes a face before he can help it. “You have a dog?”

“Well, not _technically_ , but…” Grief finally apparently proves too much, and Alan throws himself into Ted’s arms and before Ted could do anything about it he had the Green Lantern sobbing into his shoulder. He very awkwardly pats his back.

“Alan, no one’s seen you in _days_ ,” Ted says stiffly, trying very delicately to extrude himself from the embrace. “ _This_ is what’s got you all tore up?”

“He was _my_ dog, he got me fired from the radio once but he was still _my_ dog–”

It was going to be a long day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alan's original own Green Lantern solo really was taken over by a stray dog he found in the street until it got canceled-- look it up!


	16. Parallax!Hal/Sinestro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Get away from me!”

It’s a night of anomalies. Sinestro doesn’t, as a rule, stay over once they’ve well and thoroughly exhausted all other potential activities. He also doesn’t, as far as Hal can tell, sleep all that much, prefers to let the ring take the burnt of endless days and wounds yet to be licked. Hence, the rarity of the lithe, too-tall body sharing Hal’s bed.

His ring shines brightly in the dark, so damn yellow it might as well be the sun coming up. _In brightest night indeed_ , Hal thinks, resists the urge to take Sinestro’s hand and high-five himself.

Sure, Hal’s still wearing his, too, and call it a matter of trust all you want but his hand is politely shoved under a pillow, whereas Sinestro’s decided to sleep on his back like archaeologists are minutes away from stumbling on to his sarcophagus.

Hell, maybe that’s why Hal’s up at– 3 AM, a quick glance at his nightstand reveals, his unconscious mind must’ve decided enough was enough, time to snuff out Sinestro’s light.

Or, something along those lines. Hal can’t quite be held accountable for it.

It’s then Sinestro moves, shifts just enough to be noticeable, eyes screwed shut as he breathes out what must be a name, too quick and too soft for either of their rings to catch. His ring grows brighter.

 _Fear_ , Hal realises as he sits up, suddenly alert.

“Parallax,” Sinestro repeats, sleep-muffled, and Hal’s blood runs cold. “Get away,” he mumbles again and, then, too loud and too abrupt, “Get _away_ from me!”

Sinestro sits up, the sheets pool around him as he pants, open-mouthed like he can’t get enough air, like he’s drowning.

For a moment, Hal stares. For an even longer moment, Hal doesn’t understand. There’s no real way to reconcile _this_ with the Sinestro he knows and doesn’t exactly hate. He fights the strange urge to smooth down Sinestro’s moustache. “Hey,” he says, instead, quiet like the mention of Parallax hasn’t done enough to charge a certain corps’ rings for the next year or so. “You okay?”

Which is, in hindsight, a pretty dumb thing to ask.

Hal’s made a well-worn habit out of it.

At the sight of him, Sinestro stiffens even further, his eyes dart to the lack of grey around Hal’s temples. They both know what he’s looking for, that it lays just underneath cheap dye and cheaper hope.

“Given the chance,” Sinestro starts, dry and a little hoarse, nothing like himself as he traces the contours of his own neck, “would you do it again?”

“Don’t.”

Sinestro’s nothing if not cruel, Hal knows it intimately, but he’d hoped for a nice night, had counted on it. “That wasn’t– You just had a nightmare.”

“I don’t _have_ nightmares,” is all he gets before Sinestro’s darting off in a sudden burst of light.

A memory, then. Not a nightmare.

Hal’s fingers stray to his bare chest, as if he expects Parallax’s armour.


	17. Alan & Jay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Okay, so maybe I didn’t see that coming.”

Alan dreams, often and vividly. On occasion, it’s visions of his childhood home in a Gotham that’s yet to be swallowed up by skyscrapers and a little blond kid in a backyard, playing with his wooden trains. Those rarely lead anywhere pleasant, not in a mind that still associates trains with fallen bridges.

In a manner of speaking, the Starheart’s to blame, Alan knows that the nights he crashes into bed with the ring still on have proven that much.

But tonight’s–

Worse.

The ghost of an arm thrown over him is what first alerts him to it, the sheer impossibility of the gesture. Alan’s never brought anyone home, his singular attempt to get _it_ out of his system had yielded no results. He tries not to think about it, most days. Out of sight, out of mind and all that.

And yet, here he is. The figure is unmistakably male, pressed close enough that Alan feels himself burn with the flush staining his cheeks. _I’m dreaming_ , he thinks, hysterical. Too much of him wants to sink into the sensation, the comfort of something he’d never allow himself. All-American heroes, role models, _normal_ men don’t long for the kind of love he can’t put into words.

The hand, scarred knuckles like Ted’s got, dips faintly lower and Alan jolts awake at the blare of his alarm clock.

 _God_.

For a moment, he sits and breathes, too aware of blood rushing elsewhere. If that’s enough to get him– Alan rubs a hand over his face, sighing. He feels much younger than he has in a good, long while. The temptation to bail out on an upcoming JSA meeting is considered and cast aside, instead he rushes to the shower, undressing as he goes, and stands under ice-cold water until the shadows recede.

—

Habit dictates that Alan tends to be punctual. Early, most days. Getting to the JSA headquarters just as the meeting is coming to an end sort of weighs heavy on his heart. _Sort of_ is, unfortunately, the best he can do.

Other things have taken priority.

It’s hard not to linger in the doorway, heart thrumming in his chest like the guys might just see– it on him. The constant impression that Dr. Fate knows a great deal more than he lets on doesn’t ease as Alan’s eyes land on his helmet across the room.

He shouldn’t have come.

“Everything alright, big guy?” Jay asks, bright, as he lays a hand on Alan’s shoulder just in time to feel him flinch under the too quick movement.

“Yeah!” Alan clears his throat. “Yes. Sorry, I know I’m–”

“Two hours late.”

Alan cringes, unthinkingly takes a step back. “Okay, so maybe I didn’t see that coming,” he admits, feels so very unlike himself. “I had to shower. For two hours.”

With that atrocious truth out into the world, which cannot be better for it, and confusion drowning out whatever else Jay might be feeling, Alan takes the opportunity to fade into the wall – one of the amenities his ring so gracefully offers – and escape mostly undetected, free to pretend there’s any way to erase this morning from history.


	18. Hal/Sinestro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Is my sweater ever going to be returned?"

Hal wouldn’t say he’s _scared_ , exactly. It’s his choice to hover a couple of inches in the air, ring raised in self-defence because sheer instinct’s decided to override any hint of logic. Not that there’s much logic in, uh, this.

It’s been a long day that’s turned into an even longer night. Hal’s lucky he hadn’t crashed straight through the front door from lack of sleep. Okay, _luckier_ still that he’s got a front door in the first place. That’s rare these days, what with the whole rush-off-to-space-at-a-moment’s-notice thing being less than compatible with a steady job.

None of which accounts for the fact that Hal had walked in, yawned, frowned at the twin points of light coming from the general direction of the couch and gone about his business of stumbling over his own furniture in the dark on his way to the fridge. It’d taken him a hot second to realise what was amiss. That’s where he’s now, post-turning on the lights and yelping at the sight of one Thaal Sinestro lounging on his beat-up couch.

“Holy shit,” Hal says, hand over his heart because somewhere along the way he’s clearly been possessed by the vengeful ghost of a little old lady.

Feet now firmly on the ground, he turns off the lights again just to peer intently at the yellow glow of Sinestro’s eyes then turns then back on right away. Hal finds himself fixed with a glare he’s grown too used to too long ago.

“Are you quite finished?”

Except Sinestro’s not asking and Hal’s not doing a great job of stifling an abrupt burst of amusement at an ensemble he’s only now managed to take in. Inexplicably, Sinestro is wearing– [galaxy-print leggings](https://slaapkat.tumblr.com/post/187494336662/never-forget-that-sinestro-owns-a-pair-of-space), the kind Hal would readily associate with teenage girls partial to Starbucks and not aliens with superiority complexes, and one of Hal’s own hoodies, possibly taken from the steadily-growing pile of dirty clothes currently overtaking his bed.

This is all still new, the no-strings-attached disaster they’ve stumbled into. Long time coming, sure, but Hal’s no good with boundaries and even worse with commitment. Whatever he’s agreed to can’t have included the maybe-overnight bag next to Sinestro. He wants it more than he can say.

“Yeah, sorry,” Hal agrees, grinning, less than sorry.

Usually, there’s not much talking. Hal’s almost surprised he’s yet to find himself slammed against the nearest wall.

“If you help me figure out your primitive technology,” Sinestro says, from where he’s apparently resumed fiddling with the remote, “I might allow you to join me for tonight’s _Ancient Aliens_ marathon.”

He’s perfectly serious, of course. Sinestro’s newfound passion for TV is both just about the funniest thing Hal could’ve ever imagined _and_ often remembered at the worst of times. Batman doesn’t appreciate a whole lotta smiles during Justice League meetings.

“Deal of a lifetime, huh?” Hal laughs and it’s _easy_. “Just lemme get changed.” He’s gotten into the unfortunate habit of not wearing much underneath the uniform and that, for once, isn’t what they’re here for. Hal stops in the doorway though, abruptly – and, because this is Sinestro, morbidly – curious. “I’m not getting that hoodie back, am I?”

“Certainly not.”


	19. Hal/Sinestro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s a real shame nobody asked for your opinion.”

As it stands currently, it’s not like either of them have too much reason to hang around each other. Sure, there’s the occasional slightly shameful tryst between them every now and then, but for the most part Hal and Sinestro keep their separate ways.

Save for _now_ , apparently, in the aftermath of one of those said shameful trysts. Hal stands in front of his bathroom mirror and frowns, shirtless and clad in only a pair of boxers he’d scrounged up off the floor to make him decent. He runs a hand over his neck and chest, inspecting, and frowns deeper.

Bruises, bright and blooming, dot the skin across his collarbone and climbing up the column of his neck, with a telltale bite mark just under his jaw. Hal’s frown, somehow, pulls even deeper. 

Jesus, it was like Sinestro had almost made it a _point_ to mark him up, possessive to a fault and a right bastard about it too. Not that Hal could usually find it in himself to complain, just– there was only so far he could adjust the neckline of his Lantern uniform without looking _weird_ , and the _last_ thing he needed during the League meeting later that day was Batman’s withering glare focused on him and his Definitely Not Hiding a Hickey turtleneck. 

Hal’s so focused on himself that he doesn’t notice Sinestro swanning into the bathroom behind him, similarly shirtless but wearing those atrocious galaxy print leggings he seems so endlessly fond of, until he presses himself close against Hal’s back, eyes glinting as he joins Hal’s inspection of himself in the mirror, long and nimble fingers idly tracing the edges of the bruises.

Hal leans into the touch before he can help it, despite the frown still so deeply furrowed in his features; Sinestro’s only ever this tactile in the immediate aftermath of their _encounters_ , and a part of him isn’t so willing to give it up just yet, even if he _is_ mad. 

“I have to go out in _public_ , you know,” Hal only _half_ whines. “You couldn’t have, I don’t know, bothered to keep it below the collar? Like a decent person?”

Sinestro’s reply is a noncommittal hum of acknowledgement as he leans in close to nose against Hal’s neck, something sounding suspiciously close to a _purr_ rumbling deep within his chest. “And? Since when have you known me to be _decent_? I rather like the look of it.”

“Only because you’re not the one who has to deal with Guy’s constant wolf whistles,” Hal grouses, though his heart’s not really in it. 

“Hmm,” Sinestro hums again, the pad of his thumb tracing a bruise just under his Adam’s apple. “It’s a real shame nobody asked for your opinion, then.”

There’s a teasing note to his voice which stops it from being just a hair under threatening, as per usual. Hal huffs a laugh and turns to face Sinestro, head tilted and eyebrow raised. “You’re a real asshole sometimes, you know?”

“And _yet_ ,” Sinestro purrs, leaning in. “Here you remain.”


	20. Alan & Ted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“–old school, pioneer, wild man fucking–”

The Wizard tunes out right around there, his jaw dropping in abject, visceral horror at the apocalyptic sight of the Green Lantern’s yet-unfinished speech. He’s still _going_ , horror of all horrors, detailing every single thing he’s apparently ever wanted Wildcat to do to him. Green Lantern, at least, looks as mortified as Wizard feels, his face beet-red in embarrassment but unable to stop on account of the truth spell Wizard had _thought_ he’d implemented correctly.

Wildcat, by all accounts, rather looks like he’s having the time of his _life_ despite being bound by magical ties alongside his teammate– who was still spouting out all the depravity he’d evidently spent years holding in.

A truth spell. This was supposed to be a _truth spell._ As public as the JSA’s headquarters is, it’s left startlingly undefended surprisingly often. Most times it’s left in the sole care of their matronly cook, perhaps one or two of the children. Rarely does it ever have any of the _heavy hitters_ around for any significant length of time. It was _supposed_ to be an easy hit– strike surely and silently, steal a few artifacts from the trophy room, drop a trojan containing a piece of the Thinker into their central computer, and leave –but, of course, when are things _ever_ that easy?

Green Lantern and Wildcat had been there to witness him stepping out of his portal, but it was only the fact that he’d caught them in the middle of– raiding the fridge? In full costume? –that the Wizard had still managed to take them by surprise and restrain them before either could attack or call for backup. From there it was a matter of making the trip worthwhile and quickly tying the two together with a binding spell on the floor. If he might as well have an audience… he might as well see if there was anything to discover that they would be willing– or _unwilling_ –to spill.

A truth spell seemed the easier, quickest method. Evidently, the Wizard hadn’t thought it out as well as he’d initially hoped.

“I said I wanted your _secrets_!” the Wizard snaps, his frustration finally boiling over. Frankly, he’s a little frightened. Any hope he’d ever had at winning through intimidation was lost by sheer virtue of being ignored in favor of the circus he’d inadvertently walked into.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Green Lantern confesses, continuing to ignore the Wizard’s posturing. “God, Ted, the way you look in that suit–”

“ _This is not what I want!_ ”

“Cheers, pal! It’s what yer gettin’!” Wildcat barks out with a laugh. The Wizard feels himself begin to flush with the indignity of it all and is this close to giving up altogether. “Hey, hey– I told you about how I’ll have phonesex with Catwomen when no one’s around, right–”

“Yes,” the Wizard hisses, scrubbing a hand down his face. Green Lantern was still going. “You did. Very explicitly.”

“–spend all night shattering some headboards–”

“That’s it! By the gods, I’ve _had_ it!” the Wizard blurts, frantic. “I don’t want your stupid secrets, anyways! Just– don’t _ever_ mention I was here.”

Another spell opens up a portal directly behind him, which the Wizard hastily steps through to escape. As he disappears, the ties binding Alan and Ted together dissolve away. Alan immediately learns forward and buries his face in his hands, mortified.

Ted is quiet for a moment, before leaning back on his hands and whistling. “Jeez, big fella. Gotta say, I’m flattered.”

Alan whimpers just slightly. “Ted, please don’t…”

“No, really. Truth spell, remember? Pretty sure I still can’t lie. Anyways, Selina hasn’t been answering my calls lately–”

“ _Ted_ –”

“And I’m just _sayin_ ’, what better compliment, right? That just means I still got it! Love ya, pal. Thanks for that.”

They continue to sit in silence, before Ted speaks up again, considering the remains of Ma Hunkle’s chili that had been spilled to the floor during the initial surprise of the Wizard’s invasion. “Say, wanna get takeout?”

“…Yes.”


	21. Hal/Sinestro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This isn’t my home.”

It’s how the city looks now that always gets Hal the most. Everything is too _new_.

The pavement is smooth and uncracked, unblemished by the dark spots of old chewing gum ground into the concrete by the heels of unceasing traffic. The roads devoid of potholes, clean and without any skidmarked scars to mar its surface. No soot-stained underpasses, no crumbling buildings of abandonment, no dirty back alleys vandalized with layers upon layers of scrawled spraypaint.

Sure the place _looks_ the same, superficially but– it still feels like a poor facsimile of the real thing in the end.

It’s why Hal finds himself on the roof of his apartment building after a night of sleepless tossing and turning, sick-yellow nightmares on the edges of his vision chasing away whatever rest he could have hoped to have. His new place was too _quiet_ ; he couldn’t stand the silence too much anymore, too long spent kneeling in the charred crater of everything he’d ever known, too many thoughts threatening to swirl around his head.

It’s calming, there on the roof, because there in the dark of pre-dawn, eyes bleary and burning with exhaustion, if he squints _just_ right, he can _almost_ imagine it’s exactly the city it used to be. _His_ city. He can close his eyes, then, and listen to the distant sounds of traffic and people, to _life_ , and assure himself that he _wasn’t_ actually in the process of losing his mind all over again. 

Coast City was here. He was here. it was fine.

“You seem to be up awful late.”

Hal can’t fight the somewhat self-deprecating chuckle in response to the voice manifesting behind him. “It’s getting close to five AM,” Hal points out, wry. “I’d say that’s closer to me being up awful _early_ , Sinestro.”

He cracks open his eyes to see Sinestro shrug carelessly in reply, floating in the air some distance in front of him now, looking down at him with that ever-present expression of polite disapproval. Usually, Hal would be all too eager to use Sinestro as a distraction, but tonight– this morning? –he’s suddenly not in the mood with his usual brand of self-superiority. 

When Sinestro gives no sign of moving, Hal sighs. “Fine, I’ll bite. What do you want?”

“I came to make a call,” Sinestro answers simply, haughty like it had been a chore, but his abrupt casual use of the euphemism makes Hal snort. “And you were not there, thus forcing me to come find you.” A pause, eyes narrowing as he seems to take a second to examine Hal critically. “Why are you sleeping on the roof, Jordan?”

“I wasn’t _sleeping_ ,” Hal shoots back, rubbing at his eyes and scowling. “I was– I dunno, listening. To the city. Trying to keep my head on straight.”

All he gets for that is silence, to the point that Hal’s almost sure Sinestro’s gone and left, but when he looks up Sinestro is still there, expression unreadable. Hal watches him warily.

What could _Sinestro_ understand, anyways. He was trapped in the central power battery when Coast City was destroyed and dead during Hal’s plunge into madness. If he was ever aware of Coast City at all, he would have probably been too busy orchestrating the Anti-Monitor’s invasion of Earth to bother noticing the rebuilding efforts. Moreover, what would he _care_ – for as complicated as their relationship was, either side made little effort to actually be _too_ considerate, desperate to keep up that facade of _no-strings-attached_ despite everything to the contrary. 

What Sinestro does, instead of declaring this wasn’t worth his time and flying off with a parting insult, in descend slowly to the ground, bright yellow Lantern gradually fading away, and… _sit_ , somewhat stiffly, down next to him, staring out over the horizon as Hal had been, expression still unreadable. 

“Your home?” Sinestro asks flatly, apropos of nothing. It’s jarring in a way Hal can’t describe, but he does nothing to stop it.

“This isn’t my home,” Hal admits, heavy like it’s admittance of guilt, like his desperate quest for to _make things right_ had been all for nothing, in the end. His home had been reduced to ash and lay below a grim monument to the real thing. 

More silence. Then, “New Korugar isn’t my home, either.” Another pause. “Then again, neither was Korugar to begin with, really.”

Hal gives Sinestro a guarded side-eye. What was he getting at?

“Exile made my own people a stranger to me, my own home hostile territory,” Sinestro continues, then adds blithely, “Of course, I acknowledge my actions didn’t help, but my point stands. New Korugar was built atop a former prison planet, population by the people who’d originally left our home planet as a direct result of my actions. It’s not even anymore their home as it is mine.”

It’s just enough to shock Hal out of his stupor, the ridiculousness of it all– Sinestro, on the verge of sentimental, apparently trying to relate, just talking to Hal like it was something they _did_. 

“So you know,” Hal supplies quietly. _Home_ , but not quite. A poor facsimile. 

Sinestro nods, a stiff, quick movement, and they stare out over the horizon together. There’s a small comfort in the company, sitting just close enough to be aware of each others presence, the warmth radiating the air between them. As the first dim rays of sun begin to creep up into the sky, Hal finds himself cherishing it. 


	22. Hal & Sinestro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Did you forget you’re only a mortal?”

The Earth’s sun stretches out in front of him, hanging in the dark void of space. At this distance, Hal knows, logically, it should be a bright, blazing ball of intense heat and flame. Instead, it’s comparatively little more than kindling, in the last throes of death before the sun-eater consumed it. 

Hal’s cape flares out behind him, flapping in nonexistent wind. He stares pensively ahead, and contemplates the end of the road in from of him.

Next to him, floats an apparition, one that Hal’s fast learned to ignore, a manifestation of his sins like some fucked-up ghost of Christmas-past.

Sinestro’s neck is bent at a grotesque, unnatural angle, clothes torn and his face beaten and bloody, one eye swollen shut while the other bulges out, a gruesome and accusing whale eye.

He doesn’t usually say much, seemingly content to serve as a silent reminder of Hal’s failings, always lingering at the edges of his vision. Nothing more than a figment of the imagination of an already fast-fraying mind, surely. Hal’s usually just as content to ignore it; his madness had already consumed enough of him as it was, the last thing he needed was the added guilt of the only man he might have called a friend in the midst of all this.

_I was right._

The words hiss gratingly into his ears, everywhere and nowhere all at once. Hal sets his jaw, and stares into the sun like he hopes for a source of salvation. Yes, Sinestro was right. He knows that, now. The Guardians were fools and if not for them Hal might have been able to bring back Coast City, might have been able to _save_ Coast City outright.

He wished he could have known, before. 

Hal stares into the sun. He knows what has to happen.

_Did you forget you’re only a mortal?_

No, Hal is only all too aware. This– _this_ , here, was his last chance. At redemption, at peace, at _escape_. The crawling itch at the base of his skull had become nigh unbearable in recent months, spreading beneath his skin like millions of biting insects, leaving him feverish and manic, desperate for relief. 

He may be a mortal, but he was also _Parallax_. He couldn’t save Coast City, but he _could_ save the only other home he had left. 

Hal spares a glance next to him, risking a full look at Sinestro for the first time since he had cursed his name in the blood and dirt of Oa. For some reason, he smiles. Sinestro hangs there, limp, but his own expression stretches into a macabre grin, cooked and mocking to the end.

Hal flies into the flames, and lets the inferno embrace him.


	23. Alan/Ted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A bet."

Alan doesn’t hang out with Ted much, as a rule.

Sure they’re friends, and both hailing from Gotham, they will occasionally see each other about town, but outside of the JSA they don’t make too much effort to get together. 

For good reason, in Alan’s opinion.

It’s charity night at Grant’s Gym, apparently. Al Pratt was invited over as _The Atom_ and Ted as Ted Grant, _heavyweight champ_ , was coming out of his semi-retirement to fight him. Alan Scott was there as _Green Lantern_ to supervise.

Not exactly JSA-sanctioned, but it was for a good cause. Or so Ted claimed, anyways. 

The gym is a cramped, stuffy, raucous affair, the air thick with sweat and cigarette smoke. It _stinks_ , to say the least, but Alan was there to help give an air of legitimacy to the whole thing and for some reason it never occurred to him to just say _no_. He doesn’t pay too much attention to the fight, only assuring that neither Ted nor Al got too rough with one another. 

Ted’s boxing friends are even more obnoxious, crowding around Ted after the final bell rings (Ted had won, by a slim margin, largely because Al had let him), lauding the fight and giving him a ribbing for almost getting beat by the Atom. 

Alan’s just about to leave, really. The fight’s over with and Al needs a lift home. 

“Well, _I_ bet you wouldn’t even be able to land one on Green Lantern!”

There’s a sharp increase in the jeering, and Alan registers his name just in time to hear an indignant _oh yeah_? follow immediately after. He turns, confused, only to find himself abruptly face-to-face with a smirking Ted, a wild and absurdly confident look in his eyes before he grabbed Alan by the front of his shirt and jerked him down, crashing their lips together in a rough approximation of a _kiss_. Alan is too startled to react, jeers and cheers erupting all around them, and before he knows it it’s over, Ted pulling away and turning back to his entourage, arms up in victory and laughing.

“What! You didn’t say _what_ I had to land him with. Now pay up, chump–”

Alan’s frozen to the spot, beet red, face burning, and it’s only the fact the the gym remains very crowded that he doesn’t burst into flames right then and there. He feels Al tug on his cape.

“You, uh. Okay?”

“Dandy,” Alan confirms, rough. He clears his throat. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”


	24. Hal/Sinestro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What happens if I do this?”

It happens in one of those rare moments immediately after one of their– _trysts_ , for lack of a better word. When the each of them are laid out in Hal’s bed, loose-limbed and languorous, Sinestro the most content Hal’s ever seen him in his _life_ , languidly stretched out like a cat in a particularly perfectly comfortable sunbeam.

It’s dangerously close to _cute_ , which worries Hal just slightly, but he supposes it’s not so bad a feeling so long as he doesn’t obviously act on it. The affection lingers all the same. 

Sinestro is asleep, or at least feigning it while he continues to collect himself in the midst of whatever counts as post-coital bliss for him, laying on his back, his ordinarily perfectly coiffed hair in startling disarray, strands of it falling over his brow; it always seems so long when it’s not slicked back, Hal can’t resist the urge to reach out and sweep it back.

There’s no reaction at first, maybe Sinestro really _is_ asleep. Just a deep, contended sort of sigh though his nose, and when Hal decides to throw caution to the wind and keep going, carding his fingers through surprisingly soft hair, Sinestro leans up into the touch. Some kind of rumbling sound starts deep in his chest, low and quiet, traveling upwards until Hal can pinpoint what it is.

Sinestro was _purring_. “Holy shit.”

Sinestro’s eyes flutter open at that and he frowns, lazily swatting Hal’s hand away with a glare. The noise stops just as abruptly.

It guarantees that Sinestro will probably never spend the night again, but Hal’s so full of childlike fascination in that moment that he suddenly doesn’t care, halfway sitting him up in excitement. “Dude, you never told me you could _purr_ –”

“Because I _don’t_ ,” is Sinestro’s clipped answer. He turns onto his side, facing away. He doesn’t _leave_ , though, which inspires Hal to be daring.

“Oh, yeah?” Hal retorts defiantly. “What happens if I do _this_?”

He reaches out again, deliberate, running his fingers through Sinestro’s hair and gently scratching back slowly in some kinda facsimile of petting. Sinestro stiffens at first, until Hal must hit just the right spot and that deep rumbling starts up again, shoulders sagging with the reluctant relief of it.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Hal says again, utterly delighted.

“You will speak of this to _no one_ ,” Sinestro growls, then inclines his head just slightly. “Now. Just a little to the left. Please.”


	25. Henry King Jr.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Maybe a fic/drabble about our favorite BBY BOY HANK?! Maybe about his father, or his newfound friends?!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posted here in favor of the uh. other one due to this being an innocent story about our dear babiest boy hank (henry king jr). hope you enjoy! largely a slightly rambling massively indulgent headcanon brought on by how strikingly different henry's behavior towards his son is when he has amnesia.

The heavy oak door to his father’s study slams behind Hank as he stomps out in a huff. He can practically already hear his demeaning reproach inside his mind, _we don’t slam doors in this house, Junior._ Crystal clear and immaculate. _Annoying_ is what it was, that he’s been told off enough times to picture it so clearly. 

The anger burns and settles deep within him, frustrating Hank to no end. A headache lingers on the very edges of his thoughts, as it usually does, not outwardly painful or obvious but _present_. A fact of life for him, at this point. Nothing to go crying back to his father about, not that he would have even cared.

He _used_ to, though.

That’s the thought that pains him most of all, stewing inside Henry as he marches off and out of the house, _away_ from the oppressive air his father seemed to exude and those piercing, all-too-knowing eyes. The cool night air is a soothing enough balm, and Hank walks and _walks_ until the tingling feeling of paranoia on the back of his neck fades, and he sags into the first park bench he sees with a sigh at the pure relief of it. 

It had been another one of his father’s-- _interrogations_ , for lack of a better word. What they were about never actually mattered. Sometimes it was because Hank thought he could get away with borrowing the car, or nabbing a quick twenty from his wallet. Lately, it had been due to his father’s growing disapproval of his relationship with Yolanda, with a none-too-subtle push towards a one _Cindy Burman_. Either way these _talks_ always ended the same way.

_Tell me what I’m thinking_. 

It made Hank’s skin crawl, the way his father looked at him-- looked _through_ him, searching for something that wasn’t there. The glaringly obvious, palpable disappointment every time Hank guessed wrong followed by a dismissal tinged with irritation that Henry never bothered to hide. 

That’s how it’s been, for _years_ now. Hank doesn’t have too much hope of it ever improving, only ever continuing further down the same downward spiral it’s been on ever since Mom died. 

But he hopes. 

He hopes, because-- Hank can _remember_ , as vague and hazy as a six-year-old’s memories can be, his mother and father gathering around him as he blew out the candles on his birthday cake, Henry’s bright smile matching Merry’s. How, during those rare times his occasional headache ratcheted up to a debilitating migraine, Henry would lay there in his darkened bedroom with him, soothing him with assurances that he knew exactly how it felt and that he was _here_. 

It wasn’t perfect, obviously. Sometimes his father would be gone for days, weeks, _months_ at a time, and Merry’s only answer to Hank’s tearful childish why’s being a tight, pained smile and a tighter, all-encompassing hug. But it was still-- _better_. Better than this.

He still remembers the day it all changed, as much as he wished otherwise. It’s stark and crystal clear, how Hank had waited outside school for _hours_ for his mom, frustrated and fearful that he’d been forgotten, only to eventually be picked up by a man whom he’d seen visit his father on occasion, _Mr. Mahkent_ , with his stiff and awkward smile and lightly accented speech-- his cold, cold hands that provided no comfort when offered one for Hank to take and lead him away. 

When Henry came to pick him up-- days? --later, his eyes rimmed red and sunken in with a hollow sort of grief, he might as well have been a ghost of his former self. Stone-faced, emotionless, irritable and standoffish, pushing Hank to the side as though all he did now was remind him of his failures. No more comforting words or warm smiles when Hank’s headaches struck back, merely a scrutinizing, disparaging glare and two aspirin shoved his way when whatever Henry was looking for ceased to be found.

He might never have known Merry to the extent his father did-- he remembers the _idea_ of her, as a mother, he remembers he misses her, mourns her --but Hank _knew_ his father. Knew he’d _changed_. Maybe he could change back. 

Hank startles back to the present when his phone suddenly buzzes. A glance at the time reveals he’s been out here for hours, now. It’s a single text from his father.

_Come home._

_Dinner._

Hank stares, and sighs, shoving the phone back in his pocket. 

In the end, he’s glad he still has those memories to covet. A reminder things had been good once. He’s ready to accept he’ll never get it back. He can only hope one day Henry will find in him whatever it is he’s looking for. Maybe, then, they’ll have a piece of those old times back.

Hank rises from the bench and dejectedly begins his trek back home.

**Author's Note:**

> come find us on tumblr at [slaapkat](https://slaapkat.tumblr.com/) and [ufonaut](https://ufonaut.tumblr.com/)!


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